You are just

The leftover

Electricity on

My tub from

Suicide

Attempts past

And I cannot

Feel those

Waves

Now too

Tremorless

A hundred threads
Whitely pass
Into the red curve.

The sea of grass and I survey.
Delicate folds shape the mass
As a cobweb napkin.

I sip daintily at
Stark faces in
The brilliant musk.

This is a struggle to
Recover my black bones
From velvet soul-eating sleep.

Here, inside of a glove
Which always seems to
Have an extra finger or two.

Continuing in a serene orbit,
Just a figure on a rail,
And silver day is an idiot greyhound,

Bounding instantly afterward
Rather like a run in a stocking
But not at all.

Sepia wind runs through forgotten hands
Around a fitted frame, beneath a door;
Too like a battlement of local lore,
Too like an estuary of white sands.
And wind continues on and eastward past
A café built by Orpheus to house
The hungry lovers that would look, would louse
Eurydices by looking on at last.

And all to meet a rail upon a coast
Where sits a flower and a god of earth
Exchanging looks that burn the stars' bright feet.
She drinks the inks of valorous repeat,
Where fails the poet's hopeful hand at birth:
Exchanging all the words that leave us most.

I stood in the water
which rose to my ankles
and I asked it to lower an inch.

But water is set from
the sea to the stagnant
and it paid no attention to me.

I stood to the chillness
which swallowed my stomach
and I begged it to give me some room.

Still the puddle was deaf
from loud years in the sky
and it reached its blue arms around me.

I stood in the last lights
with a collar of ice
and I prayed all might cover my head.

Then the water did drop
as a freak act of chance,
but my feet are still stuck in the earth.

It is the first few freezing nights
that is when I miss you most

It is the first few fallen
dried dead leaves
that is when I miss you most

It is the blackberries, apples and yams.
that is when I miss  you most.

It is the foliage
it is the full moon.

It is the smell of warmth
flying up between each strand of hair

It is the nights where stillness
and sound
procreate


It is you,
who I miss the most.

My eyes they ache
from the swole set upon them
through night.

Sleep was sleepless
awake through an unconscious
labyrinth of dark adventure.

The tears were bestowed
upon me.
For they were a symbol of my biggest fear.
Fear of a blasé attitude
of adventure
beyond the Alamo.

The salted water that flowed that night
was I
trying to walk away from the truth.
To pretend I did not hear.
But the river upon my cheek knew, it heard.


The tears they were hours of fear.
Screaming.
They knew.
Those tears held the future.
They held the knowing
that we too
will grow apart.

My eyes began to hide as we retired conversation.
My eyes began to hide as the night grew tired
And we’d lie next to eachother like two lines on the road
And I didn’t want to open my eyes for fear that you had snuck from the covers
And then suddenly you were singing like the call of a nightingale.
My eyes and mind were deluded into believing the occurance of the following events.

We sat together like two birds on a branch.
My breathing was heavy like the tree being supported by the ground.
We sat together as the wind carried loose limbs and leaves to the next town.
The storm was coming but I wanted to stay a little longer.
The storm was coming we must set flight!
But I did not want to separate for fear you’d be gone forever.
But I did not want to be blown and beaten for the Maine ***** grabs.
The storm was coming, so I left my ambitions to be carried with the limbs and leaves
And I left my nightingale alone in the night, to fight with the Nimbus as the storm carried on.
My eyes began to uncover from blankets, I felt your existence inches away.
My eyes were mislead and I rolled right on over and went back to bed.